Chapter 6 – REX
Chapter
Six
REX
My hands won't stop fucking shaking.
The maintenance room door slams behind me and I fumble with the lock, fingers slipping on the metal like I've never used hands before. The strap dangles from my mask, severed clean where her blade caught it, and the whole thing threatens to slide off my face with every movement.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
How much did she see?
The question pounds through my skull like Phoenix's drums, relentless and deafening. I press my back against the door and slide down until I'm sitting on the filthy concrete floor, one hand still pressed to the ruined side of my face while the other tries to assess the damage to the mask.
The leather strap is fucked. Completely severed about an inch from where it attaches to the mask itself.
I dig through my pockets with trembling fingers, looking for something, anything to fix this. Safety pins, duct tape, a fucking miracle—I'll take whatever I can get.
My fingers close around something unfamiliar. Cold. Smooth.
Her fucking knife.
I yank it out like it's burning me. The bone handle gleams under the flickering bulb, that elegant scripted 'B' carved deep into the surface. Custom work. Expensive. Personal. The kind of thing someone doesn't just replace.
The blade springs open at my touch—perfectly balanced, sharp enough to slice through leather like butter. Like it sliced through my mask strap. This little piece of metal ruined everything, and now it's mine.
I should throw it away. Flush it down the toilet. Grind it under my boot until there's nothing left but bone dust and twisted metal.
Instead, I'm running my thumb over that carved 'B', feeling the grooves worn smooth by her fingers. How many times has she traced this same pattern? How many years has she carried this?
Fuck. Now I have something of hers. Something she'll want back. Something that proves our encounter was real, that she was pressed against me with this blade between us, that she saw—
My breathing comes in short, sharp gasps that echo off the concrete walls. The room smells like industrial cleaner and decades of dust, and there's a single flickering bulb that makes everything look like a horror movie. Which fits, considering I'm the fucking monster in this scenario.
She saw.
Bells saw my face.
The irony isn't lost on me that I'm having a panic attack about someone seeing what's under my mask while she's been wearing one this whole time too.
But there's a difference. She chose her mask. Mine was forced on me by twisted metal and fire and over a decade of looking like something that crawled out of hell.
My phone buzzes. Phoenix.
Where the fuck are you? We're on in twenty.
Twenty minutes. I have twenty minutes to fix this disaster and get on stage like nothing happened. Like some girl didn't just see the one thing I've spent years making sure no one ever sees.
I stand up, legs shaky, and start searching the maintenance room.
There's got to be something here. Tools, supplies, anything.
I tear through boxes of cleaning products, rags, spare light bulbs.
Nothing useful. The roll of black electrical tape I find shoved behind an old mop bucket will have to be enough.
I prop my phone against a shelf, using the black screen as a mirror even though I'd really rather not look at my hideous face even if I can barely see it, and start working.
The tape is awkward, too sticky in some places and not sticky enough in others.
I have to layer it, wrapping it around the existing leather to create a makeshift strap.
It looks like shit, but it'll keep the mask in place.
Through the gap where I fixed the strap, I can see the edge of the scarring, white and pink flesh pulled tight like melted wax. Even this tiny glimpse of the edge of it makes my stomach turn.
Her pupils had blown wide with horror. But how much did she see? Just a flash? Or enough to run her mouth to everyone about what Rex Steele really looks like beneath the mask?
If she doesn't stop stealing Nash's music, I'll have to tell the world her secret.
And she'll tell the world mine.
But even if the fans would be repulsed if they knew what I look like, it would be worth it to protect Nash's legacy. I would do anything for my brother.
Even if it means losing everything.
The door rattles. Someone's trying the handle.
"Rex? You in there?" Phoenix's voice, concerned and slightly pissed.
"Fuck off," I snarl, not turning from my makeshift repair job.
"Rex, come on, man. We need to get ready."
"I said fuck off!"
There's a pause, then the door caves in.
Of course Phoenix would just break the fucking lock.
Phoenix fills the frame, pushing his messy blond mane out of his blue eyes that immediately go to my mask, to the obvious electrical tape holding it together, to the way I'm standing with my body angled so the damaged side faces away from him.
"What happened?" His voice is quiet, careful, like he's talking to a spooked animal.
"Nothing happened. Get out."
But Phoenix doesn't move. He steps into the room instead, closing the door behind him. "Your mask is held together with electrical tape and there's blood on your shirt. Try again."
I look down. Shit. There is blood on my shirt—a few drops from where her blade caught my cheek when the strap tore. Not deep, but enough to bleed.
"Bar fight," I lie.
"Bullshit. You've been gone for forty minutes. Rafael and I have been covering for you, but—" He stops, and I can see him putting pieces together in that stupidly perceptive brain of his. "This is about Bells, isn't it?"
"Just leave it alone, Phoenix."
"Did he see?" The question is soft, almost gentle, and it makes me want to punch him more than if he'd been aggressive about it. "Your face?"
The words hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest. My vision goes red at the edges, and before I can stop myself, I'm on my feet, getting right in Phoenix's space. He doesn't back down—he never does—but I see the way his shoulders tense, ready for whatever I'm about to unleash.
"What the fuck makes you think there's something wrong with my face?" The words come out razor-sharp. "You and Raf having gossip sessions? Speculating about your lead guitarist and why he never takes his fucking mask off?"
Phoenix's expression doesn't change.
"You don't get to stand there and act like you know me," I grit out. "Like you understand anything about—"
"I don't," he interrupts, and that stops me cold. "I don't understand, Rex. But I know you're hurting. I know something happened tonight that's got you more fucked up than usual, and I know we were due on stage twenty minutes ago. You freak out when anyone's late, so something is going on."
My hand is still pressed to the side of my face, fingers splayed over the mask like I'm holding it in place through sheer will. The electrical tape feels like it's already coming loose, cheap adhesive no match for the sweat beading on my skin.
"Just leave it alone," I say, but the fight's draining out of me, leaving nothing but exhaustion and the bone-deep terror that she saw, she fucking saw, and now everything's going to come crashing down.
Phoenix sighs, drags a hand through his hair. "Stay here. Don't go anywhere."
"Where the fuck would I go?" I snap, but he's already heading for the door.
"I mean it, Rex. Stay."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone with my racing thoughts and the taste of copper in my mouth from where I've been biting the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood.
The mask shifts slightly, the electrical tape creaking like a dying insect as it starts to peel away from the leather. I press harder against it, but that just makes it worse. The whole thing feels like it's about to fall apart, just like everything else in my pathetic excuse for a life.
And despite Bells being a beta, her sweet and spicy vanilla and cinnamon scent is trapped in every crevice and cavity of my skull. I can taste it.
This can't be happening.
After years of feeling nothing, years of being dead inside, my body chooses now to remember what desire feels like? For her? The thief stealing Nash's music? The one who just saw my fucking face?
It hits me all at once. Her scent flooding my senses, the memory of how she fit against my body, how her pulse fluttered under my fingers. And underneath it all, the crushing reality that she saw.
My stomach lurches violently.
I barely make it to the industrial sink in the corner before I'm heaving. The whiskey I threw back earlier burns worse coming up than it did going down. My whole body shakes as I grip the edges of the sink, the damaged mask sliding further with each violent retch.
I have to hold the mask with one hand while my stomach empties itself, and when I lift my head, panting, I catch sight of my repulsive fucking face in the grimy mirror above the sink.
The rage hits before I can stop it.
My fist drives through the mirror with a satisfying crack, glass exploding outward, shards raining into the sink to mix with my pathetic bile.
"Fuck!" I snarl. Blood drips from my hand onto the dirty porcelain, but the burning and stinging in my knuckles drowns out the phantom scent wrapping around me like silk chains.
I rinse my mouth with my bleeding hand, the metallic taste of blood mixing with the bile. The combination makes me want to puke again, but there's nothing left. Just dry heaves and the shake in my limbs that won't stop.
When it's finally over, I'm sweating through my shirt, legs trembling like a newborn colt. Her scent is still there, clinging to my clothes like an accusation. I rinse my mouth, spit, rinse again. The taste of bile won't go away.
Neither will the shame of being so fucking weak.
The busted door opens again just as I finish wrapping my bloodied hand in torn fabric and I stand up straight, turning around. Phoenix is back, something black clutched in his massive hand.
"Here," he says, holding it out to me.
It's a mask. One of mine, the backup I keep in the tour bus for emergencies. Smooth black leather with silver accents, the straps intact and strong. I stare at it for a long moment, then at Phoenix, trying to figure out his angle.
"How did you—"
"I pay attention," he says simply. "Now put it on so we can get out there and blow these people's minds."
I grab the mask from his hand. I turn away and carefully peel off the damaged one.
The air hits the scarred side of my face and I have to fight not to immediately cover it with my hand.
The new mask slides on like armor, the leather cool against my fevered skin, and I secure the straps.
The familiar pressure is almost comforting, hiding everything—the scars, the shame, the unwanted heat that's still coiling in my gut from our confrontation.
Phoenix's eyes track to my wrapped hand, the shattered mirror, the sink. He doesn't say a word about any of it. But I catch him inhaling slightly, and I know he can still smell Bells' scent clinging to me. The question is there in his eyes, but he doesn't ask it.
I can breathe again.
Sort of.
"Better?" Phoenix asks, and there's no pity in his voice, no disgust, just genuine concern. Which makes it worse somehow.
"Yes," I mutter, adjusting the mask one more time, making sure every inch of damage is hidden.
"Good. Because I told them we'd be out there in five and Rafael's about to have an aneurysm."
We head toward the stage, and sure enough, Rafael's pacing by the stage entrance. His dark eyes immediately zero in on the different mask. He opens his mouth, probably to ask what happened to the other one, but Phoenix shoots him a look that could stop a charging rhino.
"About fucking time," Rafael says instead. "Matt's having a panic attack. Poor fucker's fighting for his life in the bathroom right this minute."
Our singer is indeed looking green around the gills as he comes up to us as if on cue, clutching his water bottle like it might save his life. Poor kid. If he knew what kind of shit show he'd signed up for, he'd run screaming. There's still plenty of time for that.
"Two minutes!" the stage manager calls out.
I grab my guitar, checking the tuning even though I did it three times during sound check. My fingers feel disconnected from my body, like I'm operating them by remote control. The crowd noise builds beyond the curtain, hundreds of voices merging into one hungry roar.
"Rex." Phoenix's hand lands on my shoulder, and I don't shrug it off. Can't find the energy. "We've got this. Just play."
Just play. Like it's that fucking simple. Like I can just forget that somewhere in this building, someone knows I'm a monster. Like I can pretend everything's normal when I can still feel the ghost of her against me.
The lights dim. The crowd screams.
"Showtime, motherfuckers," Rafael mutters, and we walk onto the stage.
The lights hit me, too bright, too hot, turning the audience into a writhing mass of shadows and phone screens. I find my position, muscle memory taking over when my brain checks out. Matt grabs the mic.
"Portland!" he screams. "Are you ready to raise some hell?"
They roar back, and I hit the opening chord of "Seraphs Don't Bleed," letting the sound wash over me. Phoenix's drums thunder in, Rafael's bass sliding underneath like oil on water, and for a second, just a second, I can pretend this is enough.
But then I catch movement in the wings.
She's there. Bells. Still in her stage clothes, that leather collar around her throat, watching us with those gold eyes that saw too much.
And despite everything—despite the rage, despite the terror, despite knowing she saw what no one should ever see—my body still remembers how she felt. The heat of her. The rapid flutter of her pulse. The way she'd fit against me like she was made to be there, even while holding a knife to my heart.
The same knife burning a hole in my pocket.
I pour all of it into the music. The fury. The shame. The unwanted desire that makes me hate myself even more than usual. My fingers bleed through the bandages as I play, and I don't care. Physical pain is nothing compared to this.
Our eyes meet across the distance, and something passes between us. Not understanding. We're too fucked up for that. But recognition, maybe. Two people wearing masks, hiding who we really are, bound together now by mutual assured destruction.
And I will destroy her.